


Never Been Kissed

by persephone (pda)



Series: Never Been Kissed [1]
Category: Dragon Age, Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II
Genre: Angst, Dragon Age Kink Meme, F/M, Kink Meme, Porn, Porn With Plot, Sibling Incest, templar!Carver
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-08
Updated: 2011-08-08
Packaged: 2017-10-22 17:18:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,803
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/240511
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pda/pseuds/persephone
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>From the <a href="">kmeme prompt</a>: <i>"Relationship vignettes: Carver/F!Hawke : what I'd really like to see is a story that explores Carver and Lady Hawke's complicated romance from beginning to end. Gut-wrenching angst is, of course, welcome and a bit to be expected. Bonus points for templar!Carver? :)</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Never Been Kissed

It started in Kirkwall, in Lowtown, in Gamlen’s small apartment with too few rooms for too many people. He insisted on a room to himself, and they made up the floor of the small pantry for Leandra, which meant Marian and Carver slept in the small remaining common room. At first it wasn’t a problem, outside of the normal friction that existed between them,. They made due.

Until the night Marian, halfway to sleep, caught a sound that yanked her from her drowsiness to alertness, straining to identify it. It came again, with a curious sigh that her body recognized before her mind did, a flush of arousal warming her until it became embarrassment when she realized it must be Carver. She rolled over to put her back to him, and the sounds stopped. Tensely, she lay there, as the silence stretched, and was just beginning to relax when it began again. She tried to stop her ears, to not hear, but his breathing quickened, turning to pants until it caught, going out of rhythm, followed by another long sigh. He shifted in his blankets, and she could no longer hear his breath, and she knew he had finished, and she felt an involuntary flash of damp between her own thighs.

It wasn’t frequent, but it continued, Marian catching the sounds of Carver’s self-pleasure and trying to ignore it And failing. After weeks of it, she overcame her reticence to touch herself, biting her lip to hold back the noises that might have escaped, blocking out Carver’s presence or that he, like her, was unwitting eavesdropper.

A week passed before the next time Carver indulged again.

It became a contest of wills for Marian after that, a punishment that for every time Carver did it, she retaliated with subjecting him to her doing it. Never at the same time, that was a line that laid between them, unspoken as the conflict itself. Tension flared, their daytime bickering escalated, until even Leandra grew frustrated at both of them fruitlessly. Stubbornly they lived hip to hip, picking up odd jobs during the day, the rivalry sublimated at night.

Until the night when, desire running high, she went to touch herself and instead heard the tell-tale noise of Carver doing so.

She ground her teeth in frustration, the sound of his breathing heavy in the air between them. In a fit of pique, she snarled in a low pitched voice, “Stop that.”

Silence fell swiftly, even his breathing becoming inaudible. The realization that it was the first time either of them had openly acknowledged it hit her a moment later, followed by a rush of heat to her cheeks and in her sex. She turned her back to him in a huff and rolled up in her blanket.

Days passed, and detente reined. They never spoke of it, but Marian held herself in check despite the hunger that gnawed at her, and if Carver was indulging, she didn’t hear it. She wondered how long she could hold out, the desire for release only partially assuaged by the scraps she kept finding herself in.

Until the night they’d found that former slave had tricked them into taking out some hunters for him, and then gotten pissy at her for being a mage. Carver had stepped forward and said, “If you have a problem with my sister, you have a problem with me.” She’d wanted to kiss him for it.

No, really kiss him.

What was _wrong_ with her?

She went home that night with images of the silver-haired elf, the leanness of his body, his voice shivering down her spine, and couldn’t resist anymore. Closing her eyes to pull his image up in her mind, her hands went to her body, stroking the skin of her belly in lazy circles then up to her breasts, the tips hardening into swollen nubs that she swirled with her fingertips, and her breathing quickened. Fenris, haughty and angry, his green eyes measuring her up, and Carver stepping up to defend her. The unexpected burst of lust that coursed through her caused her to suck in a noisy breath before she could bite it back. Her other hand flipped up the hem of her nightshirt and slid under her smalls, the shock of initial contact between her finger and clit bringing a stutter to her breath as she rode into it. She was aroused. So very, very aroused. So close already to coming.

“Stop that,” came Carver’s deep voice, a growling whisper with a tinge of a bite to it.

Something akin to anger blazed up within her, tangled with her desire. Whipping off her blanket, she crawled on all fours across the floor to where he lay. “Don’t you like listening?” she asked, low and heated. “You never said ‘no’ before.”

“Do you?” he shot back quietly, bringing himself up to his elbows to face her. They were mere inches away, his breath gusting across her face. “Do you listen? Does it make you hot, _sister_?”

She hadn’t meant to do it, but he was breathing hard and she could smell the musk on him, a masculine scent that she reacted to without thinking in her need. A nudge forward, and she was leaning into him, her breasts pressing against his bare chest through the thin fabric of her nightshirt, hardening at the contact. He didn’t shy away, glaring back, but he was quivering, his lips parted.

She dropped her mouth to his neck, near his ear. “No kissing,” she murmured.

“Fine.”

It came out in a sigh of exasperated capitulation that was so typically Carver she felt a shiver go through her. Another knee step forward, and she was with him, on him, and he was turning up the edge of his blanket so she could join him, the bare skin of his torso fevered and a bulge distorting the pants he wore for modesty. A laugh threatened to tear from her throat at that thought. She threw a leg over his hip, and he rolled partially on her, the hard knot of his erection rubbing against the dampened cloth of her smalls and into her sex. She sighed into his ear, her mouth licking salt from the skin of his neck, and he shuddered. His hand, broad, callused, strong roamed over her side, petting her through the fabric of her shirt but crept upwards, until he was just shy of her breast and paused there, fingertips running along the undercurve, palm cupping. Scraping her fingernails across the nape of his neck, garnered a jerk of his hips that ground his manhood into her pearl. She tightened her leg over his when she said, “Do it.”

His fingertips finding her nipple had her driving herself against him, straining through the fabric barriers. It felt so _good_ to have someone else touching them, and he knew how, the light touch changing to strong swirls then light pinches that had her smothering a gasp against his throat. His mouth gathered in the lobe of her ear and sucked, exhales blowing against the shell harshly as he began riding against her. She ached to shed her smallclothes, to tear his pants down and feel him against her naked, to have him fill her, enclosing him in her well that was so wet from wanting. But a small part of reason remained, a rationalization that this wasn’t _too_ different from pleasuring themselves separately, that that was a line she shouldn’t cross. Then reason fled, as his tiny moans sounded against her ear, edged by a rising whine of need, the thrusts of his hips coming with more urgency, and she was carried away by it. She matched his rhythm, then varied it, changing the friction that stimulated both of them until he swallowed a scream and shoved, body rigid and muscles flexed. She felt a warm dampness against her skin that hadn’t come from her. The paroxysms that wracked her took her by surprise at their power, body arching against his hard until she fell back to the pallet in a rush.

The lay tangled together, breathing hard, recovering, Carver’s head bowed to look away from her, Marian’s arms loosely encircling his back. He finally drew off her, away from her, to strip off his pants and drew on new. She averted her eyes, guilt creeping in, and went back to her own pallet to lay down with her back to him. She shut her eyes, wishing for sleep, only to have dreams of making love to him.

.oOo.

That wasn’t the end of it. They continued to touch themselves at night, sometimes Carver, sometimes Marian, and when it was him, she would imagine what he was doing, where he was touching, and when it was her, her mind would turn to remembering that time together, his hands on her, the feel of him digging into her sex. A few weeks later, Carver slipped into her blankets, hard and ready, and she pulled him close, mouth closing over his Adam’s apple as he worked against her, feeling the minute vibrations of his groans against her tongue.

Every few weeks, the tension rose between them, crested, and broke, not always, because there was still a fear that Mother or Gamlen would catch them, but they learned each others bodies, Marian the sweet and sour taste of his cum, the feel of Carver’s tongue lapping at her sex, toying with the clit until she was clenching her jaw to keep from crying out. They never talked about it, pretended normalcy to the world, but it burned Marian to watch how he stumblingly flirted with Merrill, or Isabela stalking him like a cat with a mouse. And she knew, _knew_ that jealousy drove his irritation at Anders, and Fenris, and Varric.

When the time came for the expedition down to the Deep Roads, with Mother there, looking on with fretful concern, she stopped him in the square with a hand to his chest. His heart leapt under her palm, and she steeled herself against her trembling. “You can’t come with.”

Exasperation exploded from him. “Why not?”

She wanted to take him in her arms, to whisper in his ear, but it was daylight, and public, and such behavior was only acceptable in the dark. “Because if anything happens to me, someone needs to take care of Mother.”

“You just don’t want to share the glory,” he snarled.

She shook her head. “No, that’s not it at all.” She couldn’t tell him it was because she couldn’t bear the thought that something might happen to him down there, that she might lose him, and so he stomped off angrily.

When she returned, he was a templar.

.oOo.

It was years before she saw him again, a chance meeting on the streets of Hightown. She saw him walking away, but she’d recognize his gait anywhere, templar armor or no. “Carver!” she called out.

He stopped in his tracks, hesitating before turning. He was with a companion, who looked between Carver and Marian speculatively, and Carver waved him off, saying something reassuring, for he stayed there as Carver approached. “What do you want?”

“We haven’t seen each other in three years, and you ask me that?”

“You made it clear you didn’t want me to be part of your life, and so I’m not.”

The words hurt, like they always did to each other. Things were best between them when they didn’t say anything. “By becoming a _templar_? Was it spite?”

His face darkened. “It’s not always about you, sister.” He turned on his heel and stalked off.

But when things went bad with Fenris, it was Carver she turned to. The Underground kept her in information, and she knew how to find him on his way to the Rose with some of his companions. He looked at her stricken face and motioned them off, allowing her to draw him into a shadowed alcove. “What is it?”

He was close, his voice low, reminding her of before, in the hovel, and she put a hand to his neck. Something clicked in his eyes, a realization, and the blue softened in the dim lights from the street. He sucked in a breath and she leaned into his breastplate, surprised the bloody cross didn’t burst into flames at the contact like her body. She buried her face in the crook of his neck and kissed it, tongue flickering out to wet the skin, and he groaned. For the first time, she let him take her, begged him to, against the wall of the alley, replacing the memories of the first time with him, feeling him inside her for the first time, just another cheap whore playing out a templar’s fantasy in the darkness.

He didn’t come when Mother died. It was Sebastian who found her, weeping and inconsolable, comforting her. But when she tried to kiss him, he pulled back, saying, “Nay, Hawke. My vows to the Chantry forbid such carnal contact. But I am here for you, if you need me.”

It would have to be enough.

.oOo.

“You and Sebastian, huh?” Carver asked after they’d returned from the Grey Warden prison.

She scowled at him, still raw from their time down there. She’d heard the tone of his voice when he’d asked her about the chaste marriage, and she’d struck back to wound in her offer to take Sebastian right there, in front of him. Then he’d retaliated by flirting with Isabela with the Chant, of all things, but she’d caught him looking at her sidelong as he recited it, and when he’d said “Passion”, she’d felt an answering burst of heat in her core. She felt it again, remembering, and saw an answering echo in his expression. It moderated her response. “He’s good to me.”

“And you’re alright,” he said with a smirk, stepping close into her, “with a chaste marriage?”

“Would anyone else have me,” she said, low in her throat, her heart beating fast at his nearness, “an apostate mage in a town like Kirkwall?

His hand tangled in her hair, strands catching on the articulations in his gauntlet and tugging, tearing. She ignored it, looking into his eyes until she saw the shift happen, the moment when he decided to lean into her, eyes half-lidding, and she was ready for it, curving towards him.

“Marian?” Sebastian’s voice sounded from the foyer.

Carver’s expression shuttered, and he withdrew his hand from her, taking a step back as Sebastian entered the main hall.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t know you were still here, Carver.”

“That’s okay,” Carver responded tersely. “I should be getting back to the Gallows.” He gave a curt bow. “Sister.”

.oOo.

“Choose,” Meredith demanded.

Carver stood behind the Knight-Commander, grim-faced, angry.

She couldn’t do it. She couldn’t risk losing him.

.oOo.

Ash drifted from the sky like grey snow frosting Carver’s black hair as he drew her aside. Out in the courtyard, her companions worked with the templars to round up the surviving mages, to gather the bodies for burning, but Carver had taken her wrist and tugged, pleading in his eyes, and the Champion had demanded a few moments alone with her brother.

There were any number of niches in the walls of the bailey, and he led her into one, wrapping his arms around her and holding her tightly, a hand cradling her skull. “I thought she was going to kill you,” he murmured. “The thought of you--her--“ His words choked off.

“Shhh,” she said, a hand going to his cheek. “It’s over now.”

"I did it for you," he said in a broken voice. "When you left me behind from the expedition, I was so angry at you and wanted a purpose that wasn't following you around all the time anymore. I became a templar because I thought I might be able to protect you. From this. But I couldn't."

"Carver," she whispered. "You did."

Her last vow fell that day, there in the Gallows, and she pulled his head down to kiss him, a whimper breaking from his throat as his mouth worked against hers, their tongues touching and tasting, an intimacy that made them forget, for a time, the horror, the death, a reminder of survival.

She shuddered and pulled away, nerves singing with desire. She wanted her brother. She could admit it now.

She put a hand on his breastplate, on the red templar sword, and exerted the faintest of pressure. “This is goodbye.”

“I know,” he said, trailing his thumb down her cheek, her throat, before his hand dropped away entirely.

“I love you,” she said.

His smirk turned up the corners of his mouth, but his voice was soft, “I know.”

She turned and walked away.


End file.
